28th Sunday in Ordinary Time

Readings: 2 Kings 5:14-17; 2 Timothy 2:8-13; Luke 17:11-19

VIDEO

I like religion.
So when people tell me 
that they are spiritual but not religious
I am often tempted, in my annoyance, 
to reply that I myself am religious 
but not spiritual.
I don’t actually say it,
because I am from the South,
where our mothers teach us manners,
and to say “bless their hearts”
rather than what we are really thinking.
But, still, I am tempted.

The serious point behind this snarky remark
that I am tempted to say
is that things people often dismiss
as “religious” and seemingly therefore “unspiritual”—
things like rituals and creeds and institutions—
in fact have a vital role to play in our spiritual lives.
We human beings are embodied, social animals
who only flourish when we share our lives with each other,
but who need habits and rules and boundaries
in order to do this.
And this is no less true of the common life
that we live in the presence of God.
When we need to pray in times of crisis
a spontaneous prayer may not come to our lips,
but an Our Father or a Hail Mary might.
When we are lost in spiritual confusion
and do not know exactly what we believe,
we can draw comfort in words that express
the faith professed by the saints down through the ages.
When we find ourselves in times 
of cultural transition or upheaval
we can look to the Church 
for a sense of stability
and a source of guidance.
I like religion 

because it answers to a deep human need 
for structure and stability,
even—especially—as we seek to stand 
before the face of the living God.

And Jesus, 
contrary to what some will tell you,
also likes religion.
He lived his life immersed
in the rituals, creeds, and institutions of Israel.
He was a devout Jew who embraced
the traditions and Law of his people
as the God-given means by which 
one could live in God’s presence.
He was circumcised on the eighth day,
he visited the temple in Jerusalem as a boy,
he read Scripture in the synagogue as a man.
And we can see Jesus’ pro-religion views 
on display in today’s Gospel,
for in healing the ten lepers
he instructs them to do 
what the Jewish Law requires:
to show themselves to the priests
and to have themselves declared “clean.” 

So Jesus liked religion
and entered fully into the practice of Judaism.
But as much as he liked religion,
as much as he recognized its necessity,
he also recognized that it was not enough.
He recognized that religious practice itself
can so occupy us that we miss its whole point,
which is to sustain our relationship with the living God.
Nine of the ten lepers in today’s Gospel
are so focused on fulfilling the demands of the Law
that they fail to recognize in Jesus
the God who gave the Law 
and who has healed them.
It is notably the Samaritan, 
the foreigner who is an outsider,
the one who believes in God
but does not worship in the Jerusalem Temple,
who recognizes what Jesus has done for him
and returns to give him thanks.
As important as proper religious practice is,
its presence did not guarantee that the nine 
would recognize how the power of God 
was at work among them,
and its absence did not prevent the Samaritan
from glorifying God,
from falling at the feet of Jesus, 
from giving him thanks for his healing.

It is really no different among us Christians.
St. Augustine wrote: 
“Some people may indeed, 
through membership of the Church 
and acceptance of all her doctrine, 
be free from spiritual leprosy: 
but they fail to recognize 
the one who cleansed them, 
and become inflated with pride” 
(Questions on the Gospels, 2.40).
We can behave as if our religion
and its rituals and creeds and institutions
are all we need.
We receive our sacraments at the appropriate moments
and we go to Mass on Sunday, at least most of the time,
and perhaps we even pray before meals
and in moments of crisis.
And all of these are good things, holy things.
But they are the floor, not the ceiling.
They make possible an encounter with the living God,
but they are not a guarantee that we will recognize him
or even notice his healing touch.
And, at their worst, they can become, 
as Augustine noted,
a source of pride.
They can tempt us to think
that we have the God-thing 
managed and under control,
that we know where to find God when we need him
and how to obtain from him what we want.

But, as the theologian Hans Urs von Balthasar noted,
“If we treat God as a sort of religious vending machine, 
he will show us that he is anything but that—
that he is a free, living God” (Light of the World, 355-356).
Religious practice is not a prison
in which we lock God up,
so that he is ready to be at our beck and call. 
As St. Paul put it in writing to Timothy,
“the word of God is not chained.”
And if we think our religion 
contains God in this way,
then perhaps we need outsiders,
maybe even those who claim 
to be “spiritual but not religious”
(bless their hearts),
to remind us of the unchained Word of God
who took flesh among us in Jesus Christ,
who scandalized the pious
and died on a Roman cross 
accused of blasphemy.

It is right and just that I like religion.
But while I like religion,
I should love Jesus,
for in the end it is Jesus who will heal me and save me,
not my adherence to rituals and creeds and institutions.
So let us practice our religion with joy and humility
for God has given it to us in freedom
so that we might recognize Jesus,
and let us pray that all of us,
insiders and outsider,
religious and spiritual,
might come to know the mercy of God.

 

28th Sunday in Ordinary Time

Readings: 2 Kings 5:14-17; 2 Timothy 2:8-13; Luke 17:11-19

At the outset of his ministry,
Jesus announces in the synagogue in Nazareth
that he has come to proclaim liberty to captives.
Our scriptures today invite us to reflect
on different forms of captivity
as we are presented with examples
of people held bound
who find freedom in Christ.

The first, and maybe more obvious, case
is Paul in our second reading.
Writing from prison,
where he is in chains for preaching
the good news of Jesus Christ,
Paul says that he is willing
to suffer for the sake of the Gospel
because he knows that,
while he may be in chains,
“the word of God is not chained.”
He knows that even as he suffers in prison
he continues to bear witness to Jesus;
indeed, his suffering itself
is by God’s grace an image or icon
of the crucified Christ for us and for our salvation.
He knows that even if his captivity
should end in his death—
as indeed it did—
he does not need to fear,
for, “If we have died with him
we shall also live with him.”
The unchained word of God
has the power to free us
even from the prison of death.

Perhaps less obvious is the captivity
of the ten lepers in our Gospel reading.
Certainly their illness had chained them
to extreme physical suffering.
But it had also imprisoned them in a social isolation
no less extreme than Paul’s isolation in prison.
The Gospel tells us that,
as they called out to Jesus
to have pity on them,
“they stood at a distance from him.”
The do this because of the belief
that those with skin diseases
were ritually impure,
and therefore excluded from participation
in the religious life of Israel.
The book of Leviticus in the Old Testament
prescribes not only that they must tear their clothing
and call out “unclean! unclean!” to warn people away,
but also that, “being unclean,
[they] shall dwell apart,
taking up residence outside the camp.”
So the lepers stand at a distance from Jesus,
not simply because of fear of infection
but because, in their ritual impurity,
they were condemned to live isolated
from all that is holy,
as if chained by the Law and by their own fear.

But the unchained word of God
present in the healing power of Jesus
overcomes that distance.
Jesus’s healing of the lepers
not only frees them from their physical pain,
but releases them from the social isolation
in which they were imprisoned.
And the one who returns to give thanks
draws near to Jesus, falling at his feet,
bearing witness to the healing power of God.

Our modern world tends be dismissive
of concepts like “ritual purity,”
seeing them as primitive and superstitious;
but we too impose our own forms of social isolation
upon the sick and the aged.
Indeed, given the way in which our culture
worships youth and health
and a certain ideal of physical perfection,
I am not convinced that we are all that different
from the Jews of Jesus’ day
in our desire to place at a distance
those whose age or illness
would defile our dream of physical perfection
and perpetual youth.
In addition to their physical suffering,
the sick in our society often suffer
being ignored by a culture
that does not want to be reminded
of the fragility of the robust youthfulness
that we worship.

Part of the power
of the sacrament of the anointing of the sick,
and the reason we celebrate it publicly in this parish,
is that it brings those who are ill
into the center of our worshipping community;
it proclaims their inclusion in God’s love and in our love.
Not only are those who suffer illness not excluded,
not made to stand at a distance,
but by this sacrament
their illness is consecrated to God,
it is made something holy
by being put at the service of the Gospel,
so that they, like Paul bound in his chains,
become images or icons
of the redemptive suffering of Jesus.

Whether or not it leads to physical healing,
the sacrament of anointing
helps those who are sick
to bear with grace their illness,
just as Jesus bore their suffering
out of love for us all;
it makes them signs of Christ’s grace among us,
proclaiming to us to and our world
the good news of Jesus’ resurrection.
This sacrament makes visible
the truth of the words of St. Paul:
“If we have died with him
we shall also live with him;
if we persevere
we shall also reign with him.”

Let our celebration of this sacrament
inspire all of us
to enter into solidarity
with the sick and suffering of the world
and to draw close to Jesus,
like the Samaritan in today’s Gospel,
to give him thanks
for the healing and freedom
that he so richly bestows
on us and our world.

28th Sunday in Ordinary Time

Readings: 2 Kings 5:14-17; 2 Timothy 2:8-13; Luke 17:11-19

There are many interesting issues raised in today’s Gospel –

concerning healing, gratitude and so forth –

but I want to begin with one question:

why is it that, when the ten lepers ask Jesus to heal them,

he tells them to go show themselves to the priests?

According to the book of Leviticus,

it was the role of the priests in the Temple

to examine those who had been afflicted

with the disease of Leprosy

in order to see if they had recovered,

so they could be re-admitted to the community of Israel.

When Jesus tells them to go and show themselves to the priests,

he is telling them to do what the Law of God required them to do.

So perhaps we ought not to be so hard on the nine lepers who went on their way

without so much as a “thank you” to Jesus.

They were, after all, doing what was right

in the eyes of their religious tradition;

they were doing what was expected of them

as good Israelites.

But one leper came back. Why?

Well, he was a Samaritan.

As you may know, the Samaritans

were something like second-cousins to the Jews

who worshipped the God of Israel,

but did not worship at the Temple in Jerusalem

or accept the Temple priesthood.

What is surprising

is that he would have approached Jesus in the first place,

for at the time of Jesus there was a great deal of hostility

between Jews and Samaritans

and the fact that Samaritan

would have gone to a Jewish holy man for healing

can only be a sign of just how desperate he was.

But it is not surprising that he would have felt no great urgency

to fulfill Jesus’ command

to go show himself to the priests,

since Samaritans did not think much

of the priests in Jerusalem to begin with.

He knew that he was an outsider,

and that even now that he had been cleansed of his leprosy

he was still an outsider.

But being an outsider helped him to see

something that the insiders missed;

it allowed him to see that it was Jesus who had healed him

and it was to Jesus that he was to give thanks.

His nine fellow-lepers were so well schooled

in their traditions and customs

that they seem to have been blinded

to what God was actually doing in their midst.

They were so focused on religious business-as-usual

that they missed something truly extraordinary:

the kingdom of God present in the healing ministry of Jesus.

“Has none but this foreigner returned to give thanks to God?”

The insiders could benefit from the perspective of the outsider.

This valuing of the perspective of the outsider

is a theme that runs throughout the Old and New Testaments.

Those who are not settled

within the well-worn patterns of religion and culture

bring to us fresh eyes with which to see

what God is doing in the world.

Prophets like Jeremiah seem deliberately

to make themselves outsiders

so as to better hear the Word of God.

This insight is an integral element

in the long-standing Catholic tradition

of openness to and advocacy for migrants and refugees.

In his 2003 Message on the World Day of Migrants and Refugees

Pope John Paul II called this openness part of,

“the Christian duty to welcome

whoever comes knocking out of need.”

In other words, it is nothing less than what we must do

if we wish to hear on the day of judgment:

“Come, you who are blessed by my Father.

Inherit the kingdom prepared for you

from the foundation of the world.

For I was hungry and you gave me food,

I was thirsty and you gave me drink,

a stranger and you welcomed me” (Matthew 25:34-35).

But this openness is more than a matter

of simple Christian charity,

for we are called not simply to give to the outsider,

but also to receive from the outsider,

to receive from the outsider a fresh perspective

on ourselves, our world, and our God.

Pope John Paul went on in the same message to say,

“Such openness builds up vibrant Christian communities,

enriched by the Spirit with the gifts brought to them

by new disciples from other cultures.”

We cannot be complete without the other, the outsider,

who can see us in a way that we can never see ourselves.

In the foreigner who returns to give thanks,

who perceives God present

in a place we never thought to look,

we learn something new about ourselves and about God.

We have seen this in our own parish community,

in all that we have gained in the past few years

from our Filipino parishioners,

who have enriched us with their customs

and given us fresh eyes with which to see

what God is doing in the world.

They have helped our parish to become more Catholic,

more universal,

through the Missa de Gallo,

Our Lady of Perpetual Help,

and most of all their prayerful presence among us.

I believe it is particularly important

to recall our Catholic tradition

of openness to and advocacy for migrants and refugees,

and our Catholic belief that we are enriched

by those who come to us as outsiders,

as questions of immigration reform begin to come to the fore

in America’s political debates.

Immigration reform is a complex issue,

and I would not presume to suggest in this forum

how we should go about balancing

compassion,

justice,

and concern for the common good

in the enacting of legislation.

People of good will can differ on these issues

and on details of various proposals.

These matters are complex and the correct solution is not always obvious.

But politics can get ugly,

and sometimes we can get ugly along with it.

Sometimes we can get locked into the framework of American politics

and forget that we are first of all Catholics.

But, as Paul reminds us in our second reading,

the word of God is not chained,

and today God's word reminds us that

there are some things that we as Catholics can never do.

We can never use the stranger in our midst as a political football

in order to gain an electoral victory.

We can never demonize those we perceive as outsiders

or to use them as scapegoats for a host of social problems.

We can never convince ourselves that we “insiders”

have nothing to learn,

nothing to gain,

in welcoming these “outsiders.”

We as Catholics can never forget

that Christ is to be found in the stranger that we welcome

and that it is sometimes the foreigner among us

who sees that to which we are blind,

who recalls to us what we have forgotten,

and who reminds us to return to give thanks to God.